Tasting Notes
by eightofcoins
Summary: P4. Naoto finds solace in a bottle.


**Prompt**

_Warning - kinda long and specific prompt coming up but the ending is up to anon!_

_Naoto's grandfather had been healthy for his age. Healthy for a person in his or her twenties, even. No one saw it coming. No one would've expected it would've ended like that. It was just a cold . . ._

_In the wake of her grandfather's death the last living Shirogane finds herself overwhelmed. Constantly bombarded with the late detective's workload, expenses, and other family business while still mourning the loss of her beloved grampa and mentor, Naoto finds solace only in alcohol. It was a last resort, but it worked well. Just a few drinks would keep her calm and centered. She could carry on. It wouldn't get out of control._

_It wouldn't . . ._

* * *

><p><strong>Tasting Notes<strong>

Yamazaki. Yoichi. Glenlivet. Glenfiddich. Glenmorangie. Macallan. Laphroaig. Talisker.

Smoke and peat, flowers and fruit, toffee and chocolate, moss and wood.

Lowland. Highland. Islay. Speyside.

Always single malt. Mostly with a drop or two of spring water, neat increasingly often.

Twelve years. Fifteen years. Eighteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-five. Thirty.

More often than not, they were older than she was.

Souji would undoubtedly be in a foul mood when he woke up.

He would lock up the cellar, force her to stop.

She was no danger to anyone else. She didn't even drive.

Yakushiji-san drove her at first, but Souji had taken over shortly after.

If this were to be her last dram, she'd take time to enjoy it.

Slow, slow, slow. Something so fine was meant to be savored.

Golden warmth burned the tongue and scorched the belly.

Lesser men called her a frigid bitch behind her back. If only they knew how hotly she burned inside.

Souji knew. Her dear, darling Souji knew everything about her.

He'd been with her for so long now.

Days into weeks into months into years.

Drams into glasses into bottles into casks.

Souji had been with her when the news came.

Just a touch of the cold, Grampa had said. Just a touch.

Her gut had told her otherwise, but she didn't have evidence.

Besides, Grampa had never spent a day in the hospital in 77 years.

She had been persuaded to return to classes. Souji carried her bags when they went back to Todai together.

Souji carried her bags when they went home for the funeral.

Grampa had been sitting in the wingback chair she sat in now, before a blazing fire like the one in front of her.

He had looked so content, glass in hand and the bottle of Ardbeg well broached.

The Ardbegs were truly excellent, but she favored Yamazaki.

This would be the last.

It didn't affect the work. She closed cases before she finished bottles.

Well, at first. She still closed cases easily, but bottles were even easier.

There had been so many in the beginning, too many. Cases, that is.

Grampa told her many times that a detective without cases is a detective without life.

He had taken on dozens of cases - some trivial, some weighty - at the twilight of his life.

Maybe it was his bid for immortality.

She closed all of Grampa's open cases, to ensure his perfect legacy. He was, after all, the greatest Shirogane.

It hadn't been easy to fill those shoes. She had laid awake night after night, mulling over clues.

One night while she paced around the mansion, she found Grampa's final Ardbeg still next to his favorite chair.

The first sip had burned fiercely, as did the second, but the next came easily.

So did sleep, afterwards.

This would be the last.

Souji had been - and continued to be - such a help. Observant and quick-witted, but never intrusive.

He was always eager to volunteer for drudgery in the mud, freeing her mind to soar in the clouds.

Most importantly, he let her fight her own battles. He knew she wasn't some damsel in distress.

The perfect Watson to her flawed Holmes.

In private moments, Souji simply held her tight and close in silence. She would fall asleep in his arms, content.

Then she would awake with a start in the dead of night.

Work to be done, always work to be done.

But afterwards, after the cases were closed or the bills were paid or the books were written, there would be warmth.

Hidden in Grampa's cellar was her golden warmth.

She needed that warmth more and more as the years went on.

Not long ago, she preferred the heat that lasted after she and Souji made love.

Tangled in the sheets, their skin was scalding to the touch.

But no matter how much Souji gave her, he could never match the golden warmth that she could pour on a whim.

This would be the last.

It was just a touch of the cold, but she knew from experience that the Shiroganes felt the cold keenly.

The cold was the last thing Grampa felt.

Grampa preferred the fire for warmth, but she preferred the bottle.

Souji preferred having her in bed with him.

To spend time with her husband was healthier, certainly. But lately, not as satisfying.

Worse yet, neither was the work.

Case after case after case.

No mere robberies or frauds. Challenging cases worthy only of a Shirogane.

Grisly cases where justice was not enough, yet neither was vengeance.

She accepted and closed them nonetheless. There was no other way for a Shirogane.

She knew, even as a child, that the world of the detective was not a romantic adventure.

At times, it could be, on the hunt with her Watson at her heel, with the scent of a Moriarity on the wind.

But at the end, there were dead victims and live villains, half-truths and empty answers.

Long ago, she and Souji and the others asked for the truth.

The truth of the world was that evil - true evil - existed in the hearts of man.

So she turned to her golden warmth for solace.

This would be the last.

She used to turn to Souji, just as he turned to her, continued to turn to her.

He held her up when Grampa died.

He held her up when cases seemed lost.

He held her up when the golden warmth faded to a dull throb in the mornings.

He had tried to stop her that night, saying that she had a problem.

He had tried to stop her that night, saying that he couldn't bear to see her hurt herself.

He had tried to stop her that night, saying that he loved her.

It hadn't been the first time he said that, but it was the first time he pulled the bottle out of her hand.

She had taken offense to that, so naturally she took one of the heavy porcelain lamps in her study and smashed Souji over the head with it.

He deserved it, for his impudence.

She could stop anytime she wanted. She just didn't want to yet.

Souji would undoubtedly be in a foul mood when he woke up.

Until he did, she could enjoy her dram in peace.

This would be the last.

One more.

One more.

_Fin_


End file.
